An End To A Means
by officialbookworm
Summary: Severe wolfstar fluff. ONE-SHOT. Rating for minor language and suicide.


Wolfstar.

Blood is an odd shade of red. Deeper, more profound than others of its hue. Like fruit juice but thicker. Like wine but more intoxicating. It's completely unique, there is nothing like it, which makes it all the more distinctive. A rattlesnake in a rabbit enclosure, people flee from the sight of it, inflicting pain and suffering. Avoiding it whenever possible unless you're in the profession.

The connotations surrounding the colour red are in themselves a potential anomaly. At one of end of the spectrum you have love, lust and passion, matters of the heart, whereas on the other end are blood, hate and pain, matters of a broken heart. Alarmingly they all coexist together, utterly incongruous to logic. They should hate each other, be rivals, each side having their own colour, own emblem to show their meaning, flaunt their worth in the others face. This one thing, this single entity unites them as one, against the odds. But they have the same, this common ground, and this just goes to show how messed up the world can be.

We take it for granted, blood, knowing it's there but not really acknowledging its inevitably constant presence. Because if we were without it how would we move, feel, breath, heal? It's what keeps us going, this red liquid. This blood running through our veins this very second is the reason for our very existence, the filament to a light bulb. It's like a phantom, always there, always present but you forget about it, it slips your mind until something major brings it back in full clarity. It makes itself known when it wants to.

All this runs through my head as I stare down at my left forearm, exposed to the chill in the room. Pale arms, slightly hairy, trailing from the sleeves of a white cotton school shirt. I was sat on a bed, white sheets and red linen. _Red, red everywhere._ Red linen, red drawings around the bed, red carpet, red posters lining a mahogany bed frame, all slightly dissimilar, a shade lighter or darker than one another.

However as I stare down at my forearm I don't just see pale skin as would be normal, I see a long jagged line, spilling red trailing from elbow to wrist, adding a splash of colour to a blank canvas. Red spills over the puckered edges of the line, falling down the side of my arm and falling onto the floor below, like branches extending from its core.

I inhale, breathing in oxygen and out carbon dioxide. This simple routine, a permanent fixture in biology, how our bodies work, calms me down, helps me get my bearings. I look around the room that has become my sanctuary, the room in which I make my escape from the unendurable pain.

I look past where I am sat, in a pool of different shades of red, each more sinister than the previous. There are 4 other beds in this room, like mine, in a semi-circle along the perimeter of the room, all with red linen and white cotton sheets, each showing signs of its owner. At the bottom of my bed is my trunk, open, spilling out its contents for the whole world to see, like myself right now, showing the world my innards, unable to take the suffering a moment longer. This in itself is shocking, I am pristine, neat. I am organised, I loathe ineptitude, I thrive from control in the little I have of my own.

On the bed to my right there are multiple articles of clothing, presumably some Quidditch robes. They are crumpled, dirty, probably thrown down haphazardly by someone in a hurry, needing to be somewhere. Above the bed are pictures, mostly of different Quidditch teams or my friends and I, looking happy, free, like we hadn't a care in the world. Things were easy back then.

The next bed is much the same as the first, Quidditch robes strewn across the soft sheets, an unmade bed, showing the lazy character it holds every night. However this one holds an uncanny resemblance to a pigsty. Not only are there clothes and items chaotically mashed together on the bed, it overflows onto the floor. This is the bed that irritates me to no end, and its occupant is no better. I detest the messiness of this corner of the room; it impacts on the rest of the room, laziness hanging in the air.

The bed receding the previous isn't much better. However instead of robes thrown across the covers there is a mountain, a literal mountain, of sweet and chocolate wrappers. They clump together in the middle of the bed to form a volcano of discarded sugar. Along the bed frame of pictures, similar to the ones on the first bed. At a quick glance they look normal, however on further inspection they look crumpled, like they're handled a lot, the owner amazed that he's in this picture with these people, taking pleasure in his friends and their status. Proud, almost of what someone like him can achieve, someone with a life of ridicule can accomplish.

This brings me to the last bed, the one to my immediate right. This one is neat and tidy, like mine. I take pride in the owner's careful administration, the grace they seem to take in the application of raising the sheets in a morning and snuggly tucking into the same crisp sheets every night. The pride in their own efficiency, all this is shown to me from the making of a bed. I've always been like that though, poetic to the point of hilarity, physically and metaphorically.

I look down at my hands, reddened slightly from the blood seeping down my arms. I raise the silver blade and bring it down over the cut, just like before. I press down, wincing, feeling the warm plasma bubble underneath my flesh, almost anticipating to be set free, to feel the fresh air. I press harder, deepening the jagged cut, but I am clumsy. I don't get the main artery in my forearm, I miss, clumsy to the point of idiocy in my haste to be rid of the pain.

It's too much, all of it. I can't take another heartbreak, another argument, another feud, another problem, another issue to add to the manifesting pile of a mess I call my life. I think I'm broken, I must be to be inflicting pain upon myself like this, with no remorse, only cowardice, finding the easy way out, grasping the little control I have at my arsenal. This is not a sick act of pleasure, don't get me wrong. I just want it all to end. An ends to a means.

As I press down again on the blade hovering over my exposed skin, already bleeding profusely, I pretend I am drawing a work of art. The blade, my metaphorical paintbrush, gliding across my skin, my metaphorical canvas, as I work hard to complete the work, making patterns across my flesh until I finish it. I feel compelled to finish it, even if it kills me, which, if I do it right, it will.

Hot tears pour down my face at how my life ended like this, a pathetic excuse of a boy, sat on his bed, in a pool of his own blood, with a blade in his hand, just willing it all to end, for his personal demons to stop haunting him. I think the thing that broke me was when I almost killed someone, someone I cared about. That was when I hit rock bottom, if I asked myself the question. I shouldn't have let myself lose control.

I raise my hands in front of my face, gazing at the scars swirling around my fingers and knuckles, my battle scars from years of relentless torture. They disgust me. They represent what's wrong with me, my illness. Running through my veins now is tainted blood, dirty blood, blood that deserves to be spilled, spilled for the atrocities this body could potentially cause. I am unworthy of air, I shouldn't exist. I'm a monster.

That's when I bring the blade down again, even harder, on the puckered wound I had created with my own hands. More blood seeps down my arm, mixing with my tears. A steady stream of tears pour down my cheeks, but that's wrong, I shouldn't be allowed to cry, someone like me is not capable of remorse, so how are the tears flowing down my cheeks even possible? Yet another anomaly in my life.

A thud, a diminutive sound really, nothing to worry about. But I hear it, my ears allow for this kind of increased hearing, another symptom of my disease. Another thud, I flinch. I need to get this over with. I use the strength my illness permits me to have to almost hack my arm off, needing the release. I raise the blade, planning on ending it, bringing the blade down on my arm with all the force I can muster, hoping the blood loss will give me what I want, what I need.

"REMUS!" A voice behind me screams. I turn in surprise, not recalling hearing anyone come up the stairs. Maybe I was too lost in the haze to notice much, damn it.

I flinch at the sound of his voice, turning towards him, almost against my will. I know it all too well. It's him, the one I love, even though I was too stupid to act on. The one that got away, the only appropriate name I could use for him. All the times I'd stare just a little longer than I should, let my hand linger when we exchanged notes, laugh a little too much at his humourless jokes. And now he's staring at me, with those puppy eyes, the ones I can't help but melt into and I can't think straight.

He rushes to me, knocking the blade out of my still raised hand. It skitters across the floor, landing with a clatter under the bed with the wrapper mountain. Then he turns to me, grabbing each of my wrists roughly, thrusting them into the air. His eyes showed worry, deep worry.

He stares down at the mess of a boy sat before him; I could feel his probing eyes almost willing mine upwards, so our gazes would cross. When I made no effort to move he removed a restraining hand from one of my wrists and pulled my chin upwards, forcing his eyes on mine.

He stared at me, trying to figure out my motives. When he finally spoke his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Remus," his voice cracked. "Remus... what, what are… you can't…"

I stared uncomprehendingly at him. In all the years I've known him he's never been so… upset. Not him, he didn't let things get to him, at least not in public, not in front of anyone. And here he was, showing all the vulnerability I already knew lay beneath the surface of his bravado, but knowing and actually witnessing are two completely different things.

I am frozen, unable to move even though I desperately want to. I _need_ to, need to comfort him, to stop the hurt from spreading across his face like an infection. "Remus," he started again, more recovered. I noticed his hands were shaking uncontrollably, jerking my wounded forearms in rhythm with his spasms. "Remus, what have you… have you done?"

I just shook my head, unable to answer. I felt like all the air had been knocked from my lungs, leaving only empty space, no oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange happening in the folds of my lungs. He saw my pained expression, then carefully plucked my injured arm into his gentle grasp, looking it over like a surgeon a patient. His eyes bugged out slightly, conveying the hurt and worry and ache he felt.

He pulled out his wand, using a non-verbal spell to heal the wound. The blood started to recede, the puckered edges of the wound sealing over, hiding the gore. All that was left of my attempted suicide was a faint pink line from elbow to wrist. As he'd done this I'd just stared at him, trying to fathom something from his impassive expression.

Finally, looking pleased with his work, a little disappointed that it hadn't completely disappeared he said, "There's a scar."

I found my voice; it came out arid, dry and vacant, like a withered mummy. "It's not like that's anything new."

I couldn't stand to look at the sympathy in his eyes, I looked down again, avoiding him. "Hey," he said, noticing my evasiveness. "You still haven't given me any kind of… of explanation. You can't expect me to just drop this, not after everything we've been through."

I couldn't take it, those eyes on me, too probing, too intimate. "I… I," I paused, trying to get my bearings. "I just couldn't take… it anymore. Don't you dare even attempt to judge me, Sirius Black."

He blew out a half exasperated half shaking breath. "What could have been this bad? What made you do… this?" Gesturing to the pink line on my right forearm.

"I'm a monster!" I screamed at him, I don't know what made me do this; I had a momentary crack in my usually composed temper. "Look at me, Sirius, I mean _really _look at me. I'm an outcast. I'm not a human, not even a wizard, I'm a _monster._ I don't belong in either world, I shouldn't exist, an anomalous mess. And I'm dangerous; I repeatedly put you in danger, every month in fact. I just wanted it to stop, not to have to shake uncontrollably because I'm terrified for what the next transformation will bring, want to curl in a ball and cry because I may have killed you or the others and not know about it until the morning, when I'm myself again." I was crying by the end, my shoulders shuddering irrepressibly, convulsing with every racking sob that rocked my already fragile body.

And then I felt a pair of strong arms encircling me, pulling me into a warm chest. This is what I needed, a sanctuary. Somewhere I can get out all my tears, my heartache and then just walk away; knowing Sirius would never tell another of this exchange between us, this collapse of my serenity. I buried my face in his chest, feeling all the misery I'd bottled up over the past 10 years finally start to seep away through my pores, as if Sirius was drawing all the pain from my body.

Hot, salty tears flowed relentlessly down my cheeks, my sobs increased, needing the release Sirius offered, his arms tightened around me reflexively. The whole time he whispered constant reassurances in my ear, his breath tickling my skin. The continual _'you're okay, everything's okay, Moony, I'm here'_ eventually had the desired effect, my sobs slowing, the tears reducing, almost retreating back into my tear ducts. My breathing evened out, becoming coherent again, thankfully. I inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm myself down, Sirius unyielding string of comforts sending shivers down my spine, but aiding me none the less.

When I'd pulled myself together a bit, I sat up, embarrassedly looking at the wet stain on Sirius' shirt from my tears, I retreated slightly, needing my own space for a second. He let me go, not taking his grey eyes off me, staring holes into my face when I wouldn't meet his gaze. I'd fallen for him solely through his eyes, shortly followed by the rest of him obviously…

But no, I was an ignorant, bookwormish fifth year when I'd first developed feelings for him, I remember arguing with him over something completely insignificant in the current climate, both making the other furious beyond sanity. His eyes fascinated me, always having some kind of twinkle in them even though they were grey, never managing to live up to the hue they appeared, he was too mischievous for such a drab colour I always thought. I remember looking at him, with his grey eyes alight with anger, his flushed face, fists clenched at his sides, leaning forward in the heat of the debate and feeling like I'd never been more attracted to another person as I was in that moment. And I've never looked back, always admiring him when he wasn't looking, jealousy clutching me whenever he made out with some random girl, but I knew I shouldn't feel these things, not for my best friend.

"Remus," he said, looking at me. I still refused to meet his gaze. "Will you at least listen to me, please?"

I deliberated this for a second before slowing tilting my head upwards, allowing myself the simple pleasure of looking at him, no matter how inappropriate.

"Remus, you're not a monster, and no, you're not going to interrupt me until I'm finished if you value your hands, okay?" He said when he noticed my change in expression. He tried again. "Listen to me, you're most probably not going to believe a word I say, you always were incurably stubborn. Do you honestly think that I care you're a werewolf? Yes, you may change into a furrier mammal than you usually are once a month but I don't care. You're still Remus John Lupin. That's all you're ever going to be to me, it's all that has/will ever matter to me. You can't help your transformations and you do everything you can possibly do to make sure you never hurt anyone. You care more about others than yourself; it's the first thing you ask about after every full moon, not even caring about your own injuries. You're Moony, the bookworm, the glue of the Maraduers, the caring, kind, sensible, funny one who's mischievous when he wants to be. Don't you dare say to me that you don't deserve a life like the rest of us, I'm serious, you great idiot."

I was startled to note the unfamiliar glisten in his eyes, I'd memorised nearly every one of his expressions, but this one was new to me. It looked like he was crying, or at least trying not to. I had made Sirius Black, biggest prankster to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts, cry. I dropped my gaze slightly, looking at him through my lashes.

"But that's not the point; I shouldn't have to do all those things. I shouldn't… put you all in danger, what kind of friend does that make me?"

"A good one! Do you honestly think James, Peter and I don't know what we're getting ourselves into when we offered to help all those years ago?"

"That's another thing, you became an illegal animagus for me. That in itself puts you all in immeasurable danger!"

"We knew what we were letting ourselves in for, don't try to make out like we're stupid."

"I didn't mean that, I just meant that it's my fault, it's all my fault."

"Did you not listen to a word of my very dramatic speech? _You can't help that you're a werewolf!_ You weren't born one, you were bitten. It's not your fault; you can't beat yourself up over something that you have no control over."

I don't bother replying, knowing he won't understand. He just doesn't understand, doesn't have to go through with those excruciating transformations every month, forever being at the moons mercy, having no control over myself every month. I shouldn't allow this to continue, but looking at Sirius now I know he'll never give me a chance to contemplate it again, never leave open a window of opportunity.

Almost as if he guessed my train of thought he gently took my hand in one of his, leaving our intertwined fingers lay between us. I look down at our hands, touching in such an ordinary yet intimate fashion; I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks slightly.

"You should have told me."

I look up, startled. Told him what? What would that have achieved?

"Why?"

He exploded. "What do you mean, why?! You're my best friend; you should be able to tell me everything, every single trivial detail about your life, dreams, ambitions, your favourite bloody cereal! I should have known there was something wrong with you, what kind of person does that make me, honestly, Moony? You should hate me, hate me with such a vengeance that I wither like a prune under your scrutiny."

"I'm the poetic one, Black," I smirk, not being able to stop myself from saying this. "I seem to be rubbing off on you."

"Now there's the Moony I know and love!" Sirius exclaimed, his face lighting up like a child on Christmas Day.

I felt a grin form on my features. The sentiment flowing through the simple sentence almost had me weak at the knees. I looked at him, really looked at him, not a passive glance. His black hair was ruffled, in its usual dishevelled state, his grey eyes gleaming. Tear tracks lined his face, making him look more vulnerable than I'd ever seen him before, sending a wave of giddiness through me. He sat crossed legged across from me, his sparkling eyes fixed on me, like I may disappear if he took his eyes off me. I didn't know he cared this much. He must have seen something change in my expression because a hard set to his jaw appeared.

"Remus, if I hadn't have found you what did you think would happen to James, Peter and I? To your parents? The teachers? All your friends? We'd miss you terribly. It'd tear your parents to shreds, how could you think no one cared?"

"I don't know, I just went for it, thinking about it was too painful."

"If I'd walked in 5 minutes later what would I have found? You, dead on the floor? A pool of your own blood encircling you? Your blood staining the wooden floor for months, almost impossible to completely remove? I could never sleep in this room again, you would have broken me."

That pulled me up short. This was nothing like any Sirius he'd seen before, he didn't know what to say. "Don't say that, I'm here aren't I?"

"I don't think you get what I'm saying-"

"What's that?" I suddenly grew uncomfortable, wriggling a little from my perch on the bed.

He wouldn't meet my eye. "It'd change everything."

Change everything?

"What would change?" I asked, puzzled.

"I, I, I don't know how to say this…"

I waited patiently for him to continue, not wanting to interrupt him when he seemed so flustered. His hands were wrung together in his lap, turning white at the knuckles from his tight grip, eyebrows knitted together in indecision.

"I've been meaning to tell you this for ages. And in light of recent events I have concluded that there seems to be no time like the present. I don't mind if you never want to talk to me again after this, it'd be understandable but I have to get it off my chest." He paused, getting his bearings together, I think I stopped breathing.

"I like you, Remus. Not just like, but _like like_ you. I have for a while. I didn't want to compromise our friendship, I mean you're my best friend; it would've been pretty awkward. But after today when I found you in here and I thought-" he couldn't finish. I couldn't breathe, the air wasn't getting to my lungs. Surely it should be right? "I thought I'd lost you forever, and you'd never known how I felt. I needed to tell you then, because I knew if I didn't tell you it would eat me alive. I understand if you never want to talk to me again, I really do, I'd punch me in the face and call me a stupid oaf if I were-"

He was abruptly cut off by a pair of lips pressed firmly to his own. He froze, body riddled with confusion. Then he recuperated, kissing me back. It was wonderful, so much better than I'd ever felt before. A spark in my body was lit, smouldering my entire being, I succumbed to the flames of passion rolling of me, wrapping my arms around his neck. I could have cried with happiness when I felt his arms encircle my waist. I felt him shift on the bed, repositioning himself more firmly in front of me, his lips never leaving mine.

He was the first one to break away, with a pitiful sound from me at the loss of heat. He kept his arms around me, mine around him, like one entity, fighting against the world. He raised his eyebrows, a silent question, an explanation was required for my actions I knew that but I couldn't stop looking at him. His full lips, a little puffy from kissing, his flushed expression, his eyes filled with lust. A grin formed on my face.

"I've wanted to do that for years."

At that Sirius grinned, pressing his lips to mine again. My heart fluttered, my pulse rising, almost puncturing a hole in my rib cage. I could get used to this.

"When?" I asked, when we came up for air, my chest rising and falling rapidly, trying to regain my breath.

"When what?" He said, feigning ignorance.

"Don't try to be comical, you arse," I smirked, playfully nudging his shoulder.

He paused momentarily, his face deep in thought. You could almost hear the whirring of the cogs working in the depths of his brain, trying to answer my question as best he could.

"About two years."

"Two years? _Two years_? And you never said anything?" I asked, gobsmacked.

"Moony, what could I have possibly said to you without making myself look like an idiot? 'Hey, I fancy my best mate, can I copy your Charms homework please?'"

I chuckled. "Well, that would've been better than being completely oblivious that my feelings were returned!"

"And if you hadn't returned said feelings it could have led to multiple awkward outcomes, each too terrifying to contemplate."

"Fair point, but I can't believe it."

"Okay then, Mr Superior, you can spill your guts to me. Not in a literal sense please, I've had enough of that for as long as I live."

I look down, the shame of my previous actions finally hitting home. I can't believe what I'd been about to do, if Sirius hadn't have stopped me I wouldn't be here now, breathing, moving, feeling. My very existence scattered like the seeds of a flower in a strong gust of wind.

"Hey," I feel a hand under my chin, lifting my head gently upwards. "I was only joking, I'm sorry."

I try to smile, albeit lamely even by my standards. He can see straight through my poorly executed façade probably better than I could. "Don't try to smile that shockingly and expect me to do nothing; don't insult our friendship, Moons."

"Sorry, Sirius." And I meant it, I feel so apologetic, not only for this but for everything. Before I could stop them words came pouring out of my mouth. "I'm sorry, Sirius, not just for this but for everything. For today and my constant whining about the transformations, about the lead ups to the full moon when I'm an intolerable bastard and I snap at everyone because of the stupid werewolf hormones. For letting you become an illegal animagus and allowing it to happen. For not being there for you when you're parents threw you out, for all the times I just completely shut you all out and you just waited until I was over it. It shouldn't have to be like that, I'm just so sorry. Friendship shouldn't be so one sided, therefore I'm putting you first."

Sirius stared at me like I'd grown a second pair of ears. His hand was still tucked under my chin, this made me oddly happy. I needed to grow a pair.

"Don't you dare say that like it's your fault," he said, almost growled at me. I froze. "I don't care if you get a little hormonal once a month, none of us ever have, as long as you were okay we didn't care. And for our friendship being one sided you can shove that right up your back side, my friend. You have always been there when I needed you so shut up before I shut you up."

I sat there, on the bed I'd been set on ending my life on about half an hour ago, now wanting to live more than ever. I was so grateful for these lungs and this heart relentlessly beating inside my rib cage whether I liked it or not, pumping oxygen around my body, keeping my alive for another second, another minute, another day for me to appreciate all the things I have that I'd been too blind and stupid to see.

Because I realised in that moment that I loved the messy haired prankster sat across from me unconditionally and without limitation. I would do whatever it took to make him happy, travel the world, cross the oceans, go from peak to peak just to satisfy him. He was one of a kind, no other person could make me feel how he did, and that meant something to me. Something irreplaceable, solid and always there, I needed that stability now more than ever. And even though the thought terrified me beyond any measure I was certain that he was my one and only, no matter how clichéd it may sound. I also knew I didn't have the guts to tell him all that though so I just said three words of it.

I leaned towards him, taking the plunge, feeling like all the air may leave my lungs any second. He instinctively made a beeline for my lips, I swerved to avoid them reluctantly, heading for his ear. I leant closer, whispered as soft as snow fall, "I love you," in his ear and took his lips in mine, not bothering to see his reaction to my words.

He responded enthusiastically, cupping the sides of my face. The depth in which he kissed me melted my heart, it was slow and passionate, each kiss lingering and meaningful. When he pulled away he laughed, pressing his forehead to mine and saying, "I love you too."

This simple sentence made me so giddy it was scary, knowing I had something to live for. And that was enough for me.


End file.
